


Failed Attempts

by BloodyAbattoir



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Blood Kink, Domestic Violence, F/M, Gender-Neutral Apprentice (The Arcana), Gore, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Julian's Curse, M/M, Masochism, Mild Kink, Mild Smut, Not Beta Read, Sadism, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 11:24:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17243381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyAbattoir/pseuds/BloodyAbattoir
Summary: Reaching their breaking point, the Apprentice finally attempts suicide. If only they'd been a few minutes earlier, none of this would be happening.





	Failed Attempts

**Author's Note:**

> By special request. For the love of fuck, pay attention to the tags, they are there for a (very good) reason. This is pretty dark, and contains a lot of violence. If you're mentally fragile right now, I'd advise not reading this. The domestic violence tag is really only there because the Apprentice attempts to smack Julian away a couple of times because they aren't having his shit. The torture bit is kinda ambiguous, as in one person is into it, the other is just doing it out of rage, but again, tagging in case that isn't your cup of tea.

Plip. 

 

Plap. 

 

The steady dripping noise was calming to your frayed nerves, and you sighed, shifting slightly. You hovered on the brink between sleep and wake, this world and the next. The porcelain beneath your body was hard, but most of it was warmed from the heat of your body resting against it. Your eyelids weighed a ton, and your head lolled to one side, too heavy for you to support on your neck properly. Instead, you rested it on the side of the tub, the cool surface a welcome contrast against your heated cheek. 

 

You were all alone here, Julian gone once again, only the gods knowing when he would return again. For the most part, that was fine by you. Sure, you would miss him. He would probably miss you, even though the way that things between the two of you had been going the past few weeks, you wouldn't quite bet on it. He was never home anymore, always busy, too busy, even for you. If you had the energy, you would've burst into tears. Instead, your breath left your body in a ragged sigh. The deep gouges on your wrists and throat had pulled your energy from you. Let your sorrows fall onto the tiles below, staining them with your blood. At least you'd be an easy cleanup. You were considerate like that, after all. Simply rinse out the tub and wash the floors and there'd be no trace of you left in this house. 

 

Something that once could've been a chuckle bubbled and died in your throat. It wasn't worth the energy. Nothing was anymore. 

 

Two hours ago, if someone had said that you would feel so at peace, you would've laughed in their face, before throwing them out into the street. But then, that was before you decided to hell with this miserable city. Before you found yourself digging around under the bathroom cabinet for the spare razor Ilya kept, finding yourself grateful for perhaps the only time that the silly boy favoured those ridiculously dangerous straight edge razors. Cutthroat razors, some called them. Whatever. It would suit your purpose. 

 

_You were on your knees in front of the sink in the bathroom. There, under the sink, was the small cabinet that held spare oddments. Extra soap, bathroom tissue, a spare toothbrush. Your fingers wandered across the lot, seeking something more sinister. Finally, with a small burst of pain, you found what you'd been looking for. Your hand closed around the spare razor that your once-lover had kept stashed away. Pulling it into the light where you could see it, you hiccuped, choking on a sob._

 

_The humidity in the bathroom had definitely waged its war against the smooth metal. The bone handle was intact, but the blade itself bore spots of rust, and a drop of blood from where you'd poked your finger on it. Normally, you'd be in a panic, tramping downstairs to get a salve on your hand to prevent infection. Now, however, you couldn't bring yourself to care. It was still sharp, rust or no rust, and had proven to you that it was more than capable of rending skin from bone if needed._

 

_The next several minutes seemed to pass by in quick succession. The light outside was doused, the door shut and locked. Your clothing came off, article by article in quick succession, folded sloppily and dropped onto the bed. You sat down in the tub, shivering from the cold that seemed to surround you. The blade came up and went back down, again and again. You'd managed to cut jagged wounds into one wrist. Barely able to hold onto the blade, you aimed for the other side, digging the sharp metal into your flesh, biting back a whimper as you saw layer after layer split apart, before you saw yourself staring into the inner workings of your arm, blood dripping into your lap._

 

_Something tinged with blue made itself visible, and you gingerly poked at it with the blade. You were rewarded with a sharp burst of pain shooting up your arm, and your fingers twitching feebly. Another poke made it clear. Yes, that must be a tendon you were poking at. Another poke, this time with the sharp side of the blade, was enough to sever it. The pain was intense enough that the edges of your vision went black. You could no longer move two of your fingers on that hand. It should be enough, but it wasn't._

 

_No mistakes. Not this time. You'd made enough mistakes to last you two lifetimes. Probably more. The blade went up to your throat. You hesitated for a moment. No mistakes._

 

_Cutting into your throat was so much harder than cutting open your wrist had been. The blade snagged and got stuck, leaving you to rip at it in desperation. It half severed your windpipe, not enough to kill you immediately, but enough to ensure your breath rattled and blood slowly filled your lungs and spilled down your chest._

 

_The razor was thrown over the side of the tub, falling onto the tiles below with a clinking sound. Suddenly too drained to move, your arm remained on the side of the tub, the steady drip of blood flowing out of your wrist and onto the floor providing a background noise that you zoned out to._

 

How long had you been there? An hour? More? It was hard to tell, and even harder to care about. Your eyelids finally slid shut, blocking out the murder scene that was your bathroom, only the rhythm of your blood spattering to keep you company. This was okay. Bleeding out wasn't as bad as you thought it would be. If anything, after the initial pain, it was almost like going to sleep after you'd had a few drinks. 

 

You didn't hear the sound of the front door slamming, or the devious doctor calling your name from the main floor. You didn't hear him walking up the stairs, still calling your name, excited to be home for once. 

 

You almost missed the shout of fear that left his lungs as he wandered into the bathroom to find you a gory mess in the tub, more dead than alive. The thump as he slammed onto his knees on the floor next to you, bringing you to the same level, blood soaking into his pants. 

 

He was babbling something, his fear and your blood-loss slurring his words together until you knew nothing of what he said, only the emotion of it. He was scared. Terrified. 

 

You had struck mortal fear into the heart of Julian Devorak, and yet, you felt nothing. No joy. No regret. The only thing you felt was tired. You were so tired. All you wanted to do was sleep. Couldn't he just let you take a nap? You'd go ahead and listen to his grandiose tales later, after you'd rested. Oh, that's right, there wouldn't be a later. Your sleep would be permanent. 

 

Despite the fact that each of your eyelids felt as though they weighed more than the entire shop and apartment apiece, they flew open the moment you felt hands on you. He'd taken off his gloves, and his bare hands were roaming your skin, taking stock of the damage, entreaties as to why you'd done it and prayers falling from his lips. It never ceased to amaze you how the arcane marks on his throat lit up like a glow worm when he used his curse to heal someone. 

 

The markings glowed bright white, and suddenly, his own throat burst open, near instantly staining his shirt deep crimson. He went to say something, you weren't sure what it was, only to gurgle and choke on blood. Instantly, his hands flew to his throat, pupil dilating in fear as he realized just how deep this injury ran. What it lacked in bloodloss, it more than made up for with brutality. 

 

Panic was on his face, and you knew that your face likely shared the same expression, albeit for a different reason. What the hell did he think he was doing? Surely he wasn't stupid enough to try to save you? You had no qualms about his safety, the curse effectively guaranteed that he wouldn't die from this, merely suffer. The incident with the vampire eel had shown you as much. No. Your fear stemmed from the fact that he was trying to save you, as you didn't want to be saved. 

 

Only a few more minutes, and you could've peacefully bled out your own bathroom, nobody being the wiser. He would've come home to find you already dead, assuming he came home at all, and you doubted for all his skill, all his 'gifts', that he was capable of bringing the dead back to life. 

 

Instead, this fool had decided to waltz in, and fulfill his savior complex. If only he had decided not to come back. If only he'd stayed at the Rowdy Raven for another drink. If only you didn't pause to get undressed. There were so many different variables. Any of them could've changed it. Any of them could have meant that he wouldn't be kneeling in front of you, hand wrapped around one wrist, instantly healing you, taking your injuries onto his own skin. 

 

He let out a strange noise when he realized that now, he was the one with severed tendons in one hand, not you. You weren't sure whether it was a noise of pain or a noise of... enjoyment? You knew fully well his masochistic tendencies, but really? This was neither the place nor time. 

 

Before you could open your mouth, a lanky body was on top of yours, crushing you against the cold side of the tub. You shivered involuntarily. "Stay." He murmured, wrapping his arms around you the best that he could, tucking his head into your shoulder. The weight of your body against his arms only managed to make the wounds on his wrists pop open again. Your attempts at squirming away didn't help either. 

 

"This is why I said I was bad for you." He said sadly. 

 

"Pushing me away caused this." 

 

You may as well have stabbed him, it probably would've hurt him less. He let out a hopeless whine, clinging to you like a second skin. You could hear him murmuring apologies, asking for forgiveness. Did he... feel bad for this? 

 

"...was only trying to protect you." 

 

In trying to protect you, the fool had nearly killed you and to add insult to injury, had broken your heart somewhere along the way. 

 

"Funny way of showing it." 

 

He pulled you closer, ignoring your feeble attempt at slapping him away, continuing to mumble into your skin, devolving into his native Nevivon tongue. By now, you had less than no clue what he was going on about, but you had nearly no doubt that it was along the same lines as what he'd been saying before, if only more desperate, if the fact that you can pick out your name peppered between the foreign words is any clue to go on. 

 

By now, your annoyance had hit a breaking point. Not only had he stopped you from committing suicide and finally freeing yourself from this insane hell, but he was on top of you, lanky figure pressing you into the hard porcelain of your bathtub. It would've been OK, except for the fact that you were both covered in blood, the blood covering you growing sticky as it dried, the blood soaked clothing he wore cold and uncomfortable against your skin. You could barely breathe properly, let alone move with the enormous plague doctor on top of you like the world's worst blanket. 

 

Swearing at him, you throw all of your waning strength into yanking one arm free, grabbing Julian's arm and attempting to free yourself. Of course, even when you were fully healthy and ready to run, his strength far outweighed yours, and clinging to you in desperation as he was, he was nearly impossible to move, despite all of your tugging. 

 

Somewhere along the line, your short nails scraped against one of the slowly healing wounds on his arm, causing him to let out a moan, grinding against you for a moment. That. That was too far. He certainly was insufferable. 

 

Recovering, he froze, head shooting up to look at you, eyes wide in panic. You were beyond furious with him at this point, and couldn't even show it, as doubtlessly, he'd get off on it, if the eel incident was anything to go by. Regardless, you summoned up your strength once more, to land a weak slap on his cheek. It did nothing to quell your rage, the pathetic noise of skin weakly meeting skin almost embarrassingly loud in the awkward silence between the two of you. 

 

He let out a whimper that sounded suspiciously like your name, and the look of panic on his face was replaced by pain. You'd never hit him out of rage before. A playful swat, usually when he snuck bites of food out of the still-cooking pot on the stove, was about the worst he would ever receive from you before now. Usually, less than whatever Mazelinka was capable of doing with her wooden spoon. Despite the weakness of the blow, it still conveyed all of the emotions you were feeling, and if he didn't feel any physical pain from that slap, you knew he felt more than a little emotional pain from it. 

 

"Why?"

 

But both of you already knew. This stemmed from all the times you'd woken up to find him gone from your shared bed, no note in sight. All the times he'd walked out, told you it wasn't a good idea, only hours after treating you to a fantastic day out with him. All the times that he'd left without telling you when - or if - he would ever return. The times that he'd decided to make decisions for the both of you without ever considering your feelings. 

 

"You know." 

 

Another fresh wave of apologies fell from his lips, until he was practically begging. Begging you to forgive him for being so short-sighted, for not thinking about how it must've made you feel to constantly see him leave, for not being there for you. 

 

You wanted to hear none of it. If anything, all you wanted at this point was to make him suffer, just as you had. 

 

Your hand closed around his wrist again, this time, purposely digging into the wound where you'd severed a tendon. While it had healed up a fair amount, by sheer brute force, you managed to reopen it, digging further into the flesh of his arm. 

 

Julian let out a groan above you, torn between being concerned as to what was going on and enjoying it. Logic dictated that you shouldn't be 'rewarding' him with this if he'd pissed you off badly enough to deserve being slapped across the face at least twice. But yet, here you were, applying more pressure into his wound, leaving him to cry out your name and jerk against you. 

 

When you squeezed again, his lips found yours in a sloppy kiss. You bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, making him pull back from you just far enough to allow you to speak. 

 

"I think I hate you at this point."

 

"No, please, no, I'm sorry, we -" he cut himself off with a short scream as you gripped his wrist even harder, blood spurting up from the wound and coating your hand. He was pressing against your thigh, so hard it was undoubtedly painful for him. Good. 

 

You felt his other hand, still behind your back, grip your flesh with enough strength you knew that there would be bruises there come the next day, if you survived that long, as he ground shamelessly against your leg.

 

You were right. He couldn't separate pain and pleasure anymore, and certainly didn't know how to restrain himself. A wry smile crossed your face. You could probably torture him to death, and he would enjoy every moment of it. Then again, it was bold of you to assume he could die. 

 

Your fingers twitched, the strain of applying that much pressure to his wrist for that period of time more than your hand could handle at the moment, causing Julian to cry out and squirm against you. Your thigh was now hot and sticky wet, and fresh blood covered your entire arm, dripping down your elbow. Your once-lover was collapsed on top of you, whispering your name softly. Then, so quiet you almost didn't hear it, "One chance." 

 

"No."

 

"Please. Just one. Let me fix this." 

 

"Don't you think you've had enough chances?"

 

"I'm sorry, but please! I want to be better at all of this." It sounded almost like an admission of guilt. You could hear his voice, choked up, and you knew that he was moments away from crying. 

 

"You couldn't change if both of our lives depended on it."

 

"Let me prove it." 

 

"Fine. It isn't like you're going to do anything anyway." He'd change for a few weeks, and then he'd be right back to his bullshit all over again, you just knew it. But if it made him happy to try to actually be a normal human being and fucking talk out your issues instead of running away for days at a time, then what was the harm? It was the difference between dying now and dying in a month from now. 

 

"Thank you." It was barely above a whisper. Feather light kisses rained down on the side of your face. You knew that come morning, things would be much different. He likely would be gone, and you'd be left with a bloody bathroom to deal with. But for the time being, you decided to humor him, and enjoy this rare side while it lasted. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask how fucking drunk I had to get to write this.


End file.
